The Sad Tale of the Brothers Grossbart

by Jesse Bullington

  “What you got? I got that Arab beggin when we put Her Will into him and little more.”

  “A day or two after that him and that mutinous Lucian was on the beams and I fired a bolt at’em.”

  “Sport or necessity?”

  “Suppose it must a been one a the two. Pinned Lucy to the mast with it, clean through the brainpan. Even Rigo laughed at that one, bastard’s body flappin and danglin til the bolt snapped and he fell.”

  “Anythin else?”

  “The Arab wouldn’t come down so I was gonna fell his roost. Didn’t get round to it, apparently.”

  “Got airs on, thinkin we’s gonna stand for him wearin the captain’s flag like a cassock.” Later things were coming to Hegel now, things involving the Arab. “Didn’t he make at you with a knife?”

  “Don’t think so.” Manfried knit his brows. “If he did, must a put’em proper, as I got no such wound.”

  “But after you kilt that Lucian?”

  “Hazy at best. We’s sailin, and they’s fishin but ain’t catch a tadpole. Ended up cuttin the Judas knight off the mast cause his rot was workin on the sail. Then we pitched’em overboard, along with the rest a them dogwhores.”

  “Captain Bar Goose included?” asked Hegel.

  “You takin me for a heathen? Barousse we left below.”

  “And the witch?”

  “Someone put her over when we was asleep. Martyn won’t own up, but we’ll beat it out a him when you’s feelin revived.”

  “So we in the sandlands yet?” Hegel asked after a period of silent reflection.

  “Nah, but gettin closer.”

  Hegel blinked and rubbed the down mattress with his surprisingly clean palm. Looking back to Manfried, he scowled and said, “So when was you thinkin bout stoppin with the tooth display and tellin me just what in Her Name is happinin? What it is, cause I know you didn’t stitch me this softness out a old turnip sacks.”

  “Come and look, brother.” Manfried finished the wine and helped Hegel rise. “Come and take a gander at Her Benevolence.”

  Arm in arm they went to the door and Manfried led him outside. Light blinded Hegel but his brother moved him forward, the sounds of the ocean nearly suffocated by the clamor of men and the nickering of horses. Even the presence of equines could not diminish Hegel’s awe when his eyes finally took in their surroundings.

  They stood on the deck of a massive ship, fully three times as large as their original vessel. The dozens of men did not rob him of breath, nor did the cheer that went up from them at his appearance. What shocked even a living saint was the fleet of ships cutting the sea around them, a prodigious, floating forest of masts, many of them flying huge white sails emblazoned with blood-red crosses.

  “We was delivered to an island.” Manfried’s swept his arm in front of them. “An island full a honest men just itchin to head south and get a piece a what the Infidel’s holdin.”

  “Mary bless us!”

  “Yes She has! Martyn!” Manfried shouted, and the cardinal appeared across the deck. “Come and hear it from his mouth, brother! That fool’s made amends in full to Her Eminence.”

  “Brother Hegel!” Martyn panted, scurrying up the stairs to the raised deck. “The Virgin’s caress has balmed you once more from the grave, delivered into such hands as are scarce fit to stroke you!”

  “You didn’t leave him alone with me whiles I was under, did you?” Hegel muttered to his brother.

  The first thing that set Hegel on edge was Martyn’s reluctance to drink with them. Under threat of harm he relented and sipped at his wine, his thirsty eyes drinking more of it than his lips. As he talked he forgot himself and drank more of the wine, but before they could open a second bottle his story had concluded.

  Martyn’s rendition shared a number of similarities with the actual event, but this could be attributed to coincidence. Their ship had indeed floated unmanned for several days while they all raved and weakened from dehydration, and they had floated into the current surrounding Rhodes. Here their ship was sighted and brought in, and within two days of arriving they had set out again, this time in the company of hundreds of men intent as they on reaching the domain of the Infidel. Martyn’s implication that they had left entirely under his command as Mary’s chosen representative on Earth is where the tale began to stray from the truth.

  After years of unsuccessfully petitioning king and pope, duke and emperor, King Peter of Cyprus had completed by his own hand preparations for a crusade. Admittedly, the Hospitallers of Rhodes had not intended to invest themselves fully before the arrival of Cardinal Martyn and his followers. The news that Pope Urban V had died, and the subsequent mutilation of his corpse at the hands of heretics, caused more distress among the holy men than can be adequately conveyed in simple words. The similarity between this atrocity and that which had befallen Formosus so long past did not escape their notice.

  That Cardinal Martyn seemed out of sorts was to be expected, they reasoned, and his overindulgence in beer was attributed to the lack of any other drink upon their wrecked vessel. Ten of the Hospitallers’ most zealous Imperial brothers were granted permission to serve as Cardinal Martyn’s guard despite the balking of the grand bailiff. The earnest knights persuaded the grand master that because the cardinal was of the rare number from their homeland they had as large an obligation to his safety as to Rhodes’ defense. All assumed bed rest and water would restore the cardinal to a more reserved demeanor.

  The shifting of targets from Palestine to Alexandria actually had been influenced by the Grossbarts. Among the proposed plans drawn up on Rhodes, landing in Egypt to take the Infidel unawares Peter had previously thought to be the most foolish of all, despite the economic advantages that the destruction of Cyprus’s chief competitor would yield. After hearing Cardinal Martyn’s tales of the Brothers’ near-saintly closeness to the Virgin, the confused heir to the throne of Jerusalem went to the hospital beds of the Grossbarts. The grand marshal of the Hospitallers could not speak German either but as he hefted the military weight of the order he accompanied Peter, praying the Cypriot ruler would defer to the wisdom of a direct assault on his rightful kingdom.

  Bidding his host to wait outside the arched door, King Peter entered the private room intended to quarantine those damned with the pest. The sight of those pilgrims basted with fever, rolling on their cots and groaning Her Name, broke his proud heart. Shame scalded the righteous king’s cheeks, the misery of these two men moving him in ways unfamiliar. Even when demons rose to thwart them they had persevered, and now the cost of their devotion was made physical upon their flesh. Kneeling between their beds, he closed his eyes and prayed.

  “If only you would give me a sign as sure as that which moved these Imperials to find me,” Peter whispered.

  “Gyptland!” the silver-bearded man moaned.

  “Gyptland!” the copper-bearded man repeated.

  Leaping up, Peter stared intently at the men, the word precise despite the language. When he later discovered they only spoke German his belief in a higher answer seemed affirmed. If Venezia and other papal kingdoms had come around and were sending men as Martyn implied, the force leaving Rhodes could secure the port city on the bank of the Nile, assuring a safe landing for the others before pressing inward. The murder of the Pope might bespeak an infiltration of the Arab subtler than that of the Turk, and an army could be lurking in ambush for them at Palestine. A man rarely has his prayer answered so quickly and assuredly, even a king. Alexandria, then.

  “And you talked’em into sailin right away?” Hegel asked the cardinal.

  “We arrived on the very day they were to leave harbor, but they delayed long enough to hear and heed my council.” Martyn smiled and reached for his glass.

  “Our council through your lips,” Manfried corrected. “Credit yourself by creditin us.”

  “Ah.” Martyn nodded. “My tongue tripped over my pride.”

  “And the Arab?” Hegel asked.

  “No doubt doz
ing in the desert.” Martyn smirked. “Unsuspecting their days of idolatrous sloth are waning.”

  “No, you twit, the Arab what was on our boat. The mecky little cunt with the mustache,” Hegel clarified.

  “With the horses.” Martyn tapped his foot. “Below, where he belongs.”

  “Keep him outta trouble.” Manfried nodded. “And the captain?”

  “Who?” Martyn blinked. “Barousse?”

  “Who else?” Hegel opened the other bottle of wine.

  “He’s, well, he’s dead.” Martyn glanced nervously from brother to brother.

  “We know that,” said Manfried. “What they did with his flesh and bones?”

  “Buried him in the churchyard of the Knights of the Hospital of Saint John,” Martyn answered. “He received final absolution and reward for his devotion to the cause.”

  “Knights a what?” Hegel asked, remembering Sir Jean’s treachery.

  “The Hospitallers.” Martyn’s pupils crested the tops of his eyes. “They who saved us, and now journey with us on their ships?”

  Manfried scowled at this but Hegel seemed satisfied. “If they’s takin us to Gyptland I reckon they’s likely not heretics, brother.”

  Martyn spluttered on his second glass of wine and set it on the table. “I would not talk so of these men, Grossbarts. The wild hair of youth must be tamed, and you must master that tongue of yours, especially in the company of cardinals and monastic knights, to say naught of the king.”

  Manfried hooked his foot under Martyn’s chair and pulled, sending the man toppling to the floor. “I’d mind that tongue a yours, lest it get slit like a serpent’s!”

  “See now.” Hegel leaned in. “You sayin there’s a king round here? He a relation to old Charles back home?”

  Martyn picked himself up from the floor, eyes narrowed at Manfried. “You bed in the cabin reserved for he, who, in his benevolence, granted it for your convalescence. As you both seem recovered, I’ll send for him, as he has anxiously awaited your council.”

  “Send up Rigo and that other, we got words for them, too.” Hegel reclined in his chair, enjoying his drink.

  Rodrigo had been taken onto the ship by force after insisting they not inter his beloved captain in the Hospitallers’ cemetery and that he instead travel with them. Only Martyn’s insistence on the young Italian’s faith spared him the noose when he kicked and fought rather than leave the side of the festering remains.

  Despite his wish to put his brigand days behind him Raphael had little choice but to follow after hearing every last gold bar on board their boat had gone with the cardinal. Being better sorted after a day’s rest and drink than any other save Martyn, the mercenary conned his way into a suit of armor and new weaponry before joining the grief-addled Rodrigo in the new ship’s berth.

  Raphael and Rodrigo dutifully came to the cabin and drank with the Grossbarts. Raphael had also noticed a distinct shift in Martyn’s character, suspiciously observing the man rarely drank more than a sip or two of wine, and never stonger stuff. Any hopes the mercenary held of thanks from Grossbart lips now that they were in good health dwindled as they badgered the two about slacking at the sails and letting Martyn call the shots. Furthermore, there was the question of where exactly all their gold had gotten to.

  “The prie-Er, the cardinal say he takes care of that.” Raphael looked around but Martyn had vanished.

  “Mecky fuckin hole!” Manfried yelled. “Martyn! Where’s that trickster?”

  “What was you doin while our gold was gettin cardinal-touched?” Hegel asked Rodrigo.

  “Nothing,” Rodrigo replied, his once-bold face wearing a wan grimace.

  “Gotta been doin somethin.” Manfried considered slapping the man to get him to pay attention when the door opened and the King of Cyprus entered.

  The Grossbarts blinked at the friendly, immaculately dressed man approaching their table, accompanied by several no less suave advisors. He congratulated them on their recovery and praised the Trinity, offering his condolences for their illness and loss of crew. Then he exuberantly launched into the specifics of their plan, righting Martyn’s spilled chair and joining their table. They did not understand a word he said, and Manfried rose to strike the dandy for his ill manners. Rodrigo finally smiled, expectantly watching Manfried, but Raphael intervened as translator.

  “This own person be the king,” Raphael explained, slipping from his chair and kneeling.

  “Oh,” said Manfried, and extended his hand. “Manfried Grossbart, servant a Mary.”

  “Hegel Grossbart, living saint.” Hegel held a bottle in one hand and offered the other.

  Peter coddled Manfried’s hand in both of his and pumped it excitedly as Raphael translated. The murmurs of his advisors that these men had not showed proper supplication was quieted with a word from Peter, and with their flawed but earnest translator resuming his seat the men talked of Gyptland, Jerusalem, and Mary. Rodrigo occasionally interrupted with harsh statements on the nature of devotion and eternal rewards, and if either brother had understood Italian they would have struck him for his foolishness. Luckily they did not, and in light of the man’s loss Peter took no offense, so only the advisors and Raphael were concerned by the fellow’s vindictive pronouncements.

  Had Rodrigo accurately interpreted the dialogue between Peter and the Grossbarts the Brothers’ gross blasphemies would surely have caused trouble, but he did not and the tongue-tied and awestruck Raphael could not have conveyed the extent of their heretical ramblings had he even been inclined. Instead, all save Rodrigo and the worried advisors enjoyed the wine and conversation, supplemented by a feast brought to them by servants toiling somewhere below. Although a touch put out that they had not offered him back his cabin, Peter left satisfied they were indeed divinely inspired, and the Grossbarts agreed the king was not such the cunt for being a noble.

  Time passed, the Grossbarts spending their days in the ordinary fashion of fighting, eating, and drinking, and their nights in the extraordinary company of a king. The cardinal often joined them but abstained from helping translate as much to save his own skin as to save theirs; instead Martyn glumly watched the imported tiger lilies he had plucked from the gardens of Rhodes lose their ginger luster and become ashen. Rodrigo was excluded from these repasts as his offensiveness was easily understood by Peter; the despondent man would gaze north from the stern, his tears joining those of Mary, which fill the oceans of the world.

  As the ruby clouds swirled atop the horizon like steam atop a stew, Manfried strode up beside Rodrigo. The Grossbart had noted the change in the man’s demeanor, and such melancholy sat poorly with Manfried. The boy would either straighten out or go over the side, because with Gyptland at hand he would not tolerate such folly.

  “Still worryin on the captain’s account?” Manfried shook his head in disbelief.

  “He was all I had,” Rodrigo sniveled. “First my mother, then father, then my brother, and now him. All dead.”

  The tears returned but before Rodrigo could turn back to the sunset Manfried had snatched him by his hair, tugging on his healing, scabby scalp and turning his head to face him.

  “Tell me he ain’t better served where he’s at,” Manfried snapped, and when the lad dumbly stared at him he went on. “Still the doubter, eh? You say he ain’t better served with the Virgin than on this lousy boat with a company a blood-handed men?”

  “I want him-”

  “You want him what? Alive and pained stead a at his reward? Want him to suffer long with us? Selfish, that,” said Manfried, still gripping Rodrigo’s hair.

  Rodrigo’s scalp peeled back a little as he went for Manfried’s throat, stopping when his perforated hand tried to close around the Grossbart’s neck. Then the young man slumped and Manfried released him.

  “Think on it. He’s gone where we all will, Mary be praised. You think to imply other than he’s better now than fore and I’ll prove you wrong. Course, heretics don’t never reach where he’s at, meanin
if you do wanna see him and the rest a your morally skint kinfolk again you’d best straighten your mecky ass out.”

  “You know nothing!” Rodrigo screamed, his face shining. “Nothing! He was sick of mind when you came, and you made him worse! I knew you’d bring his end!”

  “Men bring their ends on themselves,” said Manfried.

  “He listened to you!” said Rodrigo. “Years I obeyed him as a son obeys a father, and for what? You come into our house and suddenly it’s you and not me he trusts!”

  “Way the wheel spins,” said Manfried, with what he assumed was a sagacious air. “Maybe if you’d been a better son to ’em he’d never a set foot on that boat. Maybe he’d a listened to you.” The Grossbart did not look at Rodrigo as he left, his satisfied smile unseen by all but Her.

  In the sea-bound stable, Al-Gassur showed the bundled relic he had begun to think of as his brother’s heart to the horses, which stomped and whinnied whenever the item left his cloak. He regaled the steeds with the legend of Barousse and whispered in their long ears how he would sell the Grossbarts to the first Bedouin slavers they encountered. Then eastward for him, to find a sea containing a bride of his own, and perhaps to meet his brother again under the waves.

  When they sighted the coast Hegel and Manfried slapped each other and King Peter on the back until welts rose. At dawn they coasted into the harbor of Alexandria and the Grossbarts led the charge down the docks, armor and weapons glowing in the autumn sun.

  The massacre that ensued is well documented elsewhere, neither women nor children spared from butchery. The unsuspecting citizens fled as best they could but not before the waves splashing the quays were crimson and the gutters filled with blood. Unlike many of the Hospitallers and Cypriots, the Grossbarts and Raphael took no pleasure from the slaughter, going to task as men have always toiled-with bored disdain. Al-Gassur followed the Grossbarts from a safe distance, liberating bottles and coins from the dead and the dying left in their wake. Rodrigo refused to partake or even watch, creeping back onto the ship and drinking himself into a miserable stupor.